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Woodpecker Squall

The five feathers of Autumn weather
Were a woodpecker’s downed chatter
Under an Oaks wings
And the rain’s prism sang in my lashes
Over and over
Ring in fast skies September October
The beak of the sky
Pummelled the wood
But I dried it’s staccato why
By waving the feathers of my hand
Until the spots merged
Back to fine weather
Then left altogether.

Stephen Kirin
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